I remember a dream I once had of you, you had a milk moustache and a cookie in your left hand, and I saw the twinkle of the sun in your eyes. Hyukjae was spraying cookie crumbs all over your face and you were laughing. I wondered what it was like to laugh like you did, like time paused and the skies stopped changing and it was pure light, a light so bright that nothing could shield it.

I found you when the day was long and the heat hung over the ground like a suffocating duvet, and I was running, running from a darkness that swallowed everything in its way. I saw the curve of your cheek that caught the sun’s rays, the light coruscating in your smile, and suddenly a chasm broke in the pulsing darkness and it was all light, filling my veins, consuming my core.

I didn’t know what to say to you, didn’t want to make you stop laughing, didn’t want to turn that luminous smile off, so I just watched, watched as Hyukjae tickled you and said funny things and made you smile, and your light, the light that I couldn’t take my eyes away from but was so painful to look at, swirled around the two of you in a bright, searing column till I couldn’t see you at all.


---


Kyuhyun is not a weak man, this is what he tells himself. He has pushed through the toughest of times, stood firm in the face of adversity, spat death in the eye and made it back to stand on stage, damn it. But there is something about Donghae, something about the way his eyes catch the light, something about the bow of his cheekbones, something about the arc of his lips as the corners of his mouth turn up, that leaves Kyuhyun without defense at all. That leaves him waking up in the middle of the night with his cheeks wet and his chest cold.

Kyuhyun is a smart man, this he knows. He thinks with a logical mind, is careful with people relationships, and knows not to bare his heart to people who might break it. But there is something about Donghae, something about the subtle strain in his smile when he’s exhausted, something about the way he grabs Kyuhyun in a one-armed hug when Kyuhyun is on the verge of tears, something about the way he gives thanks for every little thing, that leaves Kyuhyun ping his chest and pulling his heart out. That leaves Kyuhyun holding his beating, pulsing soul unshielded in his outstretched hands.

Kyuhyun is an honest man, this he is sure of. He is straightforward with his opinions, doesn’t mince his words just because he was an idol in the overly sensitive Korean pop scene, and he tries never to lie to himself. But there is something about Donghae, something about the bubbling of true joy in his laugh, something about how he likes the simple things, something about the dreams and hopes that never extinguish in his eyes, that leaves Kyuhyun lying to Sungmin (a lie of omission), and to himself. That leaves Kyuhyun tiptoeing along the edge, playing with fireworks (fire).

Kyuhyun concludes with an air of resignation that it is the many things that Donghae is but Kyuhyun is not; how Donghae has eyes full of soul and promise, how Donghae is melded from fluid dancing limbs, how Donghae radiates warmth like the sun itself, that keeps Kyuhyun’s heart so tethered to him. That makes Kyuhyun love this man so much it hurts.


---


Five years after Super Junior has disbanded, and Kyuhyun is still bound. Physically, of course, because the members still hold gatherings often; go to Kyuhyun’s concerts, meet Jungsu or Hyukjae backstage of variety shows, visit Sungmin and Donghae at their acting sets, attend Jongwoon’s musicals, or sometimes just have meals, catch up with each other. Five years after, and Donghae is still with Hyukjae, Kyuhyun with Sungmin.

After so many years, Kyuhyun thinks he should have gotten used to seeing Donghae smile at Hyukjae like he was the only person in the world, seeing Hyukjae’s arm wrapped possessively around Donghae’s shoulder, Hyukjae making Donghae laugh till he was doubled over. Perhaps he has. Sometimes it doesn’t even feel like anything, just a dull, faint ache, nothing much, really. Sometimes, though, when he finds Sungmin’s hand in his, the spaces between his fingers familiar and comfortable like how a ten-year-old cup fits snugly in your grasp, all right but still wrong, it hurts harder and his chest feels a bit tighter. And there are some times when Donghae cries because of something Hyukjae has said that it hurts the worst; it hurts so hard that Kyuhyun cannot breathe, not because Donghae is crying, but because Donghae has someone else he bases his moods upon.

After so many years, Kyuhyun is still bound. God knows the number of times he’d tried to remove Donghae from his life, but Donghae had brought him back on his feet years ago, waded through fog to grasp Kyuhyun’s hand and pull him back into life, into colour again. Donghae taught him the readiness of a smile, the colour of happiness, the caress of warmth, and once Kyuhyun had tasted the magic, there was no going back. With every touch, hug, smile, Donghae had built a little cell around Kyuhyun’s heart, bit by bit, and Kyuhyun could only watch with as Donghae kept the key. And so Kyuhyun had gone on all this while, his heart held captive by a man who wasn’t his partner, a man who spent the days and the long, cold nights with someone else.

After so many years, Kyuhyun is still with Sungmin. He can’t really remember when they started, but somewhere between the space of their shared room in the dorms Sungmin pressed eager, pliant lips against Kyuhyun’s and pressed his heart to Kyuhyun’s hand, you take it. Sungmin’s heart was warm, soft, bright as the stars and romantic as the moon, and it was hard for Kyuhyun to refuse. It was a heart of warmth, a pinprick of light against the dark sky, something to hold on to as a lifeline when his own hurt too much, a grateful reminder that there was still someone Kyuhyun had. Someone that needed him, someone that made him feel indispensable, someone that satisfied his ego, his attention.

Kyuhyun loves Sungmin, he really does. He loves Sungmin because Sungmin is like the moon that appears every night, reliable and subtle, holding a soft, gentle vigil over the earth when everything is dark. And after all this while, not once does the moon say to the earth, you owe me. The earth continues revolving around the sun, becoming alive only in the sun’s glow, and the moon just continues revolving around the earth, coming out from second stage when the sun deigns to leave and the sky turns lonely, to sprinkle the stars across pitch black, a faint glimmer of light for the earth. No matter how much she tries, though, even with all the strength in her tiny heart, the moon never lights up the sky like the sun does for the earth. Not even close.


---


Donghae likes new things. He likes the exhilaration of grasping a new dance, the intriguing excitement of trying out a new role in a drama series, the resetting of his heart and mind. It gives him a good chance to erase things he was ashamed of, regretful of, unhappy about. He thinks this is what made him fall in love with Hyukjae at the start, Hyukjae who always had ideas out of the ordinary, Hyukjae who was everything in addition to his best friend, Hyukjae who never let Donghae become bored. Hyukjae filled his life, filled it with Technicolor fireworks and beautiful blinking neon lights like the Seoul skyline, filled it with rollercoaster rides of joy and tears and raw emotion.

But after so many years, being with Hyukjae now was like having Donghae’s slate filled in, drawn in vivid splendour down to every hair, every shadow, every point. Donghae watches Hyukjae try to correct an imperfection, a hasty brush of the past, but stops as he decides imperfections are pretty anyway, and he steps back to admire the painting. Donghae doesn’t know where to add the fresh colour bursting out of him; it might spoil the painting, so he steps back, his arm falling helplessly to his side, and watches as the rich oil fade to a washed out, watercolour picture, still exquisite, but a heartbreakingly thin mirage of what they once were.


---


It is one of Kyuhyun’s concerts again; Donghae struggles with a metre-high flower arrangement that he insisted on bringing to the concert himself, and waves at Kyuhyun with one of the leaves.

“Hey, hyung.” A smile.

“Hey, kid. For you.” A grin.

“Thanks, hyung. I don’t know why, but this concert is making me more nervous than I’ve ever been.”

“Don’t worry,” Donghae ruffles Kyuhyun’s amply-sprayed hair, “just go out there and show them what you’ve got. I love you,” Donghae envelopes Kyuhyun in a hug, reassuring the maknae with those three words he uses so often that he doesn’t know when he means it, really. Those three words that have become some form of greeting, really, with Hyukjae, a formality to fill voids because it was the expected thing to say.

“I love you too, hyung,” Kyuhyun whispers in Donghae’s ear, and the words feel almost romantic to Donghae, weaving a warm scarf around his chest and they stay there, tingling against his heart.

Donghae goes home to replay Kyuhyun’s words in his head over and over; he isn’t sure what it is – perhaps Kyuhyun’s breathing through his sentence, the juxtaposition of pure emotion he hears in Kyuhyun’s voice beside Hyukjae’s gentle, warm but painfully flat “I love you”s, the tiniest hitching in Kyuhyun’s voice – that gets his faltering heart, his heart that was losing itself even though it was holding Hyukjae’s hand, to pick up again.

He thinks this is what love sounds like; a heartbeat.


---


The world is shaky like the view of a handheld camcorder, everything is out of focus, he is seeing double.

Donghae is drunk.

But everything is beautiful, the light refracted into dashes and steals of rainbow in his field of vision, the intense colours in neon, the jumble of everything so nobody sees the harsh lines of reality, and Donghae decides that this must be why the alcoholics stay inebriated. It is a comfortable, hazy reprieve, a little escaping train to a land of buzzing happiness.

He grips his glass tightly again, and throws back another shot of vodka; it still burns his throat, but he forces it down. He isn’t even sure why he was drinking; he had no troubles (at least, not any that he could articulate), just a soft sigh somewhere in his throat, a whisper of a sound. But this little sigh is lodged in his throat and refuses to budge and makes his eyes water, so he forces gulp after gulp of alcohol down while he tries to explain to Kyuhyun what exactly it was that made him call the maknae over for a round of drinks (Hyukjae is in Thailand filming and Donghae was alone staring at his and Hyukjae’s empty ceiling, itching to hang Hope over their heads). Kyuhyun, the strong, reliable boy – no, man, now – who had always given him a shoulder to lean on and a quick reassuring squeeze of his hand, the member who would listen to Donghae talk for hours and wipe his tears with the pad of his thumb, Kyuhyun, who was always there whenever Donghae turned. But these words lose their way in Donghae’s throat and tunnel back into his heart, so he clinks Kyuhyun’s glass roughly to break the silence, and they down another.

They sit there drinking, Donghae slurring nonsensical words, Kyuhyun resting his forehead on the wooden dining table, and Donghae is burning. His veins are burning, his muscles and brain are burning (and his heart is burning something else). He claps a hand over Kyuhyun’s shoulder, an attempt to right the maknae, and Kyuhyun pushes himself upright to look straight into Donghae’s eyes. It is a split second of nothing; the world stops spinning, Kyuhyun’s eyes are two pools of clarity amidst Donghae’s unfocused view and the burning numbs, he can’t breathe.

A beat, then everything crashes into fast-forward motion. Kyuhyun’s lips glance Donghae’s, a fiery smear of promise and thrill.

Kyuhyun has his forehead on Donghae’s, their noses tickle each other’s, but their lips stay apart, a pause of the forbidden between fervent flesh. Their breaths mix in a furl of heat, one, two, one – and then Donghae is kissing Kyuhyun with the passion of a hurricane. He can feel Kyuhyun’s lips under his, every curve and bow excitingly foreign. The cliff of Kyuhyun’s jawline is unfamiliar under his fingers, the plateau of Kyuhyun’s nose and the river of his lips unfitting; the geography of this man nothing like Hyukjae’s, but thrillingly, refreshingly, so. Donghae pops his tongue out, just a little, to taste Kyuhyun, and he savours what he would later recognize as the intoxicatingly sweet, musky scent of illicitness.

Donghae is still burning, but in a good way now, his brain fired up, and he near rips Kyuhyun’s shirt off in his haste and inebriation. Tongues roving, teeth clashing, they make it to the bedroom (his and Hyukjae’s bedroom), and somehow Donghae finds both of them bare, Kyuhyun drunkenly at Donghae’s lip and his in desperation. Donghae is barely thinking straight; he is so far gone by now that the alcohol and lust clouding his mind crushes the little warning he has left – Kyuhyun was your bandmate, Kyuhyun is your friend, you are ing someone else while Hyukjae is away, in your bedroom – and he scrabbles in the bedside table for the lubricant (an action that was so familiar his hand seemed to act of its own accord). He has Kyuhyun bent over the foot of the bed, hands propping himself up, and Donghae wastes no time in spreading the lubricant over his fingers and ramming two of them inside Kyuhyun.

The little whimper Kyuhyun releases is so choking, so , so raw that it catches Donghae for a moment; he stops ing his fingers, stops his own member, and he can make out the slopes and rises of Kyuhyun’s back, miles apart from what Hyukjae’s looks like. Kyuhyun moans, “don’t stop, hyung, please,” and the pleading rasping has Donghae inches away from the edge. He pushes further into Kyuhyun, all the way to his knuckles, and he hears Kyuhyun again, a slurred profanity, somehow sensual against the fire hot around in his ears, something that tingles his spine because Hyukjae never swears. Donghae pulls his fingers out, and is ing his into Kyuhyun before the maknae can react.

He isn’t sure with the blood rushing in his ears, but a sob seems to escape from Kyuhyun, and Donghae regrets his rough entry (he could be as rough he wanted with Hyukjae), but suddenly Kyuhyun is bucking against Donghae, pushing Donghae deeper inside himself, and the way Kyuhyun feels around Donghae, warm and tight and wrong, but so ing right has Donghae biting down on the back of his hand. He reaches round Kyuhyun’s waist to wrap a hand round Kyuhyun’s , throbbing and fiery in his palm, and jerks the maknae off, rolling his hips.

“,” Kyuhyun lets out as he releases himself into Donghae’s hand, and the knowledge that Donghae could make someone else quiver in his hands, the hitching of Kyuhyun’s breath, the utter vulnerability in Kyuhyun’s voice sends Donghae off the edge and he comes undone inside Kyuhyun, losing his footing off a precipice of ecstasy and thrilling terra incognito.

He lands with a bump on familiar ground, the smooth landscape of his and Hyukjae’s bedroom, the walls they decorated together, the sheets they chose together, the air of intimacy and familiarity, and all that is left on his lips is the bitter, searing taste of guilt.


---


Kyuhyun wakes up with Donghae’s back plastered to his chest.

He jerks involuntarily, what the what am I doing here, and snippets of yesterday steal through his mind, like the outside through windows of a hurtling train, snap and flash. Donghae’s lips on his, a white-hot brand marking him, Donghae’s hand on his , Donghae in him.

He doesn’t know what to feel, really, what do you do when you’ve just ed an ex-bandmate, someone who wasn’t your partner? Someone who was someone else’s? Donghae’s warmth gradually gets too scorching under Kyuhyun’s skin, and he has to rip his arm off Donghae’s waist. Donghae stirs, turning around rubbing sleep-lidded eyes, catching Kyuhyun’s breath. The sun spills liquid gold over Donghae’s cheeks, the smudge of Donghae’s lip inviting, and for a split second Kyuhyun is taken with an urge to kiss Donghae.

Donghae catches sight of Kyuhyun, and Kyuhyun recognizes the shock and horror that flits across Donghae’s eyes. They are speechless, volumes of nothing hanging between their lips inches apart, and they jump away from each other as though electrocuted, Kyuhyun off the bed and Donghae jerking upright.

Kyuhyun thinks he should leave, get the out of there and never see Donghae again, maybe, but his legs do not move and his eyes do not leave Donghae’s. The air is stiff and thick, smelling of and awkwardness and shame, positively suffocating.

Donghae pushes himself off the bed, closing the distance between him and Kyuhyun in one, two steps. “Kyuhyun,” he whispers, and Kyuhyun is almost afraid to see that he cannot find anything in Donghae’s eyes to suggest that this was the man he loved so much it hurt.

And then Donghae is kissing him, slowly, gently, his lips placing feather-like touches on Kyuhyun’s, softly, tenderly, a heartbreakingly beautiful kiss that has Kyuhyun leaning into it. His mind is blank now, nothing, just the feel of Donghae’s lips, the sweetness that tugs at his heartstrings. Their bodies do not touch; like butterflies in a dance, only tickling whispers of contact so light that Kyuhyun thinks he must have imagined them.

It is an eternity, an eternity of pastel dreams as they stay like that, kissing, before Donghae’s cell phone rings and yanks them into coldness. Kyuhyun breaks the kiss, jerking away slightly, his cheeks and ears blazing as though they had been caught red-handed, and Donghae has to take a moment to recover before answering the phone.

It doesn’t take much for Kyuhyun to figure out that it is Hyukjae calling, because Donghae turns suddenly to backface Kyuhyun and yanks his pants on, his voice hushed, so Kyuhyun concentrates on keeping those tears from overcoming the dam of his eyelids and putting his clothes on. He rights the one picture frame they’d knocked askew yesterday in their hurry, returning the apartment to what it was like, just as though he had never come here, never ed Donghae senseless, never held Donghae to his chest, and leaves Donghae’s (and Hyukjae’s) apartment quietly.

Donghae never looks back.


---


Donghae really doesn’t know why he’d kissed Kyuhyun. Maybe it was the fact that Kyuhyun was there, vulnerable and trembling in front of him. Maybe it was seeing Kyuhyun’s frame against the walls of blue him and Hyukjae had painted, a stark contrast of light against monotonous background. Maybe it was the vague memory that he’d kissed Kyuhyun’s tears dry the night before, tears that Kyuhyun had said were happy tears. Maybe it was just Kyuhyun himself, a steady, reassuring grasp to hold on, just as he thought he was falling off the edge, slipping away into nothingness.

And then Hyukjae had called, and everything fell into place with a hard, rough bump and it was Kyuhyun, his ex-bandmate, his friend, standing there in his bedroom, the outlines of reality so harsh they made Donghae’s eyes water a little.

He closes his eyes, hugs a pillow in an attempt to fall asleep, and tries not to think about Kyuhyun’s lips, his intoxicating scent, the seducing essence of freedom he’d tasted the night before, but Kyuhyun appears in his dreams anyway.

It is a long, restless night of everything and nothing, Kyuhyun and Hyukjae and scenes flashing by like film pulled through a camera too quickly. It is too hard for Donghae to differentiate what’s real and what’s not, so he doesn’t try.


---


There is a silent, mutual agreement between Kyuhyun and Donghae not to mention the episode, to pretend like it never happened. It is hard, of course, and the moment Hyukjae returned from Thailand he had asked Sungmin and Kyuhyun over for dinner. Kyuhyun and Donghae had talked about the news, the latest idol debut, the weather, Hyukjae’s meagre cooking, skirting around each other in careful, measured words, the awkwardness painfully discomforting beneath perfunctory conversation.

It is a month before Kyuhyun can look Hyukjae in the eye again, a painful long month of avoiding Sungmin and biting on the back of his palm in the middle of the night so he wouldn’t cry out when he missed Donghae, a month of warm backs and cold chests, Sungmin’s tiny heart beating against his skin.

Sungmin had wanted to make love several times, but Kyuhyun couldn’t; it felt like it would desecrate the pristinely beautiful episode he had had with Donghae, agates pushed up against diamonds. So he had shifted away from Sungmin’s warmth and shrugged off the caresses, and had jerked off in the bathroom when Sungmin was out, thinking of Donghae.

He thinks it’s ridiculous of him; both of them had been drunk, they hadn’t even known what they were doing, and Donghae probably didn’t even think of it anymore, but it was something that took over his mind; consumed his entire being, and there was no letting go.

He watches as the sky lights up and dawn breaks with the sun’s arrival, filling up the black, black void that the moon tries to fill but never can.


---


It is a month of sleepless nights, a month of conflict and struggle, but Donghae cannot get Kyuhyun out of his head. The way Kyuhyun’s back had felt under him, the way Kyuhyun’s eyes had radiated this special something Donghae cannot describe, the way Kyuhyun had made him feel like the wind was in his veins when he came, the way Kyuhyun’s skin had felt under his fingers, vivid and perfect and full of life in contrast to Hyukjae. He is ashamed to admit it, but Kyuhyun filled his thoughts when it was Hyukjae touching him, and he had to bite back Kyuhyun’s name as it bubbled out of his throat when he came inside Hyukjae. Kyuhyun was everywhere; in his mind, in his dreams, under his skin.

Donghae knows he shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be thinking of anyone else but Hyukjae, shouldn’t be continuing this with his friend, but his fingers dial Kyuhyun’s number of their own accord, and Kyuhyun picks up before his resolve boils strong enough to end the call. Donghae asks Kyuhyun out to dinner and they agree to meet at a little French restaurant near the old dorms.

Dinner is surprisingly comfortable, like they were back to before, when they were still in Super Junior promoting their latest track, banter and joking insults over cold entrees and melted ice cream. Donghae tries to ignore Kyuhyun’s lips, red and inviting, the expanse of Kyuhyun’s neck, the hint of his collarbone, and he thinks it might be fine after all.

But Donghae rides on their laughter as the night grows long, a natural high buzzing through his veins without the need for alcohol, and suddenly he is leaning across the table, kissing Kyuhyun. The thrill of Kyuhyun’s lips under his, seemingly different from the drunken episode, but with a hint of comforting familiarity, enthrallingly perfect. Donghae thinks that it is the fact that Kyuhyun is a clean slate, a fresh white easel to splash colour on, that makes him so attractive to Donghae; that Kyuhyun handed Donghae the paintbrush and gave himself to be moulded into something, that Kyuhyun is shapeless in his hands, ready to be formed into anything that Donghae’s mind indulges in, that makes Kyuhyun so perfect under Donghae, that fills Donghae with mysterious compulsion.

They stumble out of the restaurant and make it to the back alley; their kiss deepens and Donghae can feel everything clearly now, the world is no longer blurry. He can make out want, a want so true and sincere and desperate in Kyuhyun’s eyes, and the knowledge that there is a someone that comes unravelled in the palm of his hand releases a trigger in Donghae. He sticks two fingers in Kyuhyun’s mouth, orders, “,” and shoves them inside Kyuhyun, the spit a meagre substitute for lubricant so Kyuhyun lets out a whimper.

Donghae pulls out hurriedly, turning Kyuhyun around, and the moon spills luminescent tracks down Kyuhyun’s cheeks that Donghae wipes off with the pad of his thumb. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out.

“It’s okay, hyung, really,” Kyuhyun attempts to smile, and Donghae is so overwhelmed by guilt that he stumbles a step backward. They stand there in deafening silence, and Donghae leaves after kissing Kyuhyun, a wordless apology on Kyuhyun’s ear, a pathetic insufficiency.

When he goes home to find Hyukjae waiting up in the living room, a half-eaten bowl of ramen on the dining table (they had always shared their ramen), Donghae feels inexplicably rotten all over, and he vows never to see Kyuhyun ever again.


---


He does, though. There is something about Kyuhyun that reels Donghae in and captures him, something that contrasts so strongly with Hyukjae that Donghae is addicted, something that Donghae can’t place, and he gives up trying eventually.

The third time happens in a public bathroom, the fourth in a sleazy cheap motel, the fifth backstage of one of Kyuhyun’s performances. It is a jumble of unfamiliar settings and cramped spaces and the reprieve of Donghae’s skin on Kyuhyun’s after that, a trail over Seoul of two hearts who shouldn’t have been together in the first place, but are so tightly stitched together by threads of unspeakable attraction so strong they seem physical, that they cannot stay apart.

Donghae thinks Kyuhyun is a felon; he had sneaked into Donghae’s dreams and took his breath away; had broken his way through Donghae’s defences (bricks of guilt feebly glued together with his weak, weak resolve), and had stolen his heart. And so they carry on like this, Kyuhyun allowing Donghae to design his mould and fill it with the molten, malleable wax of his soul. Donghae shapes Kyuhyun, a stunning translucent bust, melts it when he wants to start over, and recreates a new figure; there Kyuhyun is, defined by Donghae’s hands, and Donghae is hooked on this creative process where he is everything.

Donghae continues to stay with Hyukjae, though, and Kyuhyun with Sungmin, because they are all still in the entertainment business, and there is too much at stake to ruin the storybook romances their fans thrive upon; Kyuhyun rationalises that he still loves Sungmin, anyway, and Donghae Hyukjae as well. He doesn’t remind himself that it is wrong, cruel, even, for the earth to orbit the sun when the moon traces its steps, especially when he sees the entire sky light up in the sun’s presence; how could you say no to a luminescence like that?

The story ends this way, with no broken hearts and no revelations. Just hearts cruelly denied of (or, perhaps, humanely shielded from) the truth, hearts twisted in guilt, hearts that know danger but choose to continue playing with fire for its mesmerising beauty, and hearts that might recognize that they are being used, but choose to go on anyway.

Kyuhyun watches as the sun bleeds its shine all over the bare trees outside his window; they burn copper, a searing iridescence so beautiful, but so painful to look at.